In the Pantheons of the Gods
by Chriss Corkscrew
Summary: Pants are going missing. Can Lister track down the cause. Seriously!


Title: In the Pant-heon's of the Gods  
  
Author: Chriss Corkscrew  
  
Copyright: 2004-07-31  
  
Disclaimer: Like the Red Dwarf crew I'm just bumming around in cyber space, swiping what I need. I don't own anything mentioned in this fic. and promise to put everything back where I got it afterwards.  
  
Setting: This fic. is set just after 'Tikka to Ride'. I apologise for everything that is about to unfold.

-

Lister jumped his way to the bunk, cascading water as he ripped away the covers, "Smeg!" He swivelled back round, legs pressed tightly together, and hopped back into the shower room. Nothing. "Flamin' 'ell," he swore, tucking the towel around his waist tighter. 

There was no other option. "I'm going in!" he scowled at his laundry basket, trying to outstare it. Then, pursing his lips he ripped off the lid and dived at the mound with his hands, halting merely inches from touching the fetid, yellowing contents. "No. I can't do it, man. No kecks are worth that."

"Digging for treasure, Listy?" came a derisive voice from behind him.

He spun around again, frantically grabbing at his towel as it loosened. "It's not what it looks like, Rimmer. I've lost me kecks!"

"Kecks, Listy?"

"The ramparts of me joy department. The wrapper to me sweet. The shroud for me holy relic. Me kecks, man!"

"Holey, saggy, washed-out Y-fronts with what I hope are curry stains down the front?"

"You've seen them!"

"And not regulation boxer shorts, starched, pressed and rigidly lined-up on parade on JMC ship-issue coat hangers?"

"No! What d'ya mean, man?"

"Come on, Lister, I want them back."

"Back?"

"I know you've got them. You've gone through all of your grubby pants and now you're stealing mine."

"I don't have them Rimmer. Besides which, why would a hologram need underwear?"

"A hard-light hologram."

"Yeah, well, you still don't need them, do you?"

"So you stole them."

"I didn't steal them!"

"They're still mine you know. Mine. Personal property. You're not a Second Technician. If you wore them you'd be thrown into the brig for impersonating an officer of higher rank."

"Only because you sewed your insignia of rank on them, Rimmer."

"Give them back!"

"I don't have your poxy boxers!"

"Well they're not where I keep them."

"Mine either."

"Checked the floor did you?"

"Yeah, I checked the floor, and the light fittin's, and the opening into the food dispenser . . ."

"Lister!"

"Look, someone's going around nickin' pants. Could be anythin'. A GELF, a rogue symbiant, your mum? I don't know what's out there but I know it's sick. We've got to find the guys." Lister fished around for his trousers and, using no little skill, proceeded to don them whilst keeping his towel covering him in the classic British seaside manoeuvre. Inevitably he dropped the towel, showing Rimmer a brief glimpse of his naked backside.

"Full-moon tonight, Listy," Rimmer observed.

"Classy man. Glad I've got someone watchin' me back." Lister humped sarcastically as he zipped his fly, before reaching under the bunk and pulling out a bazookoid. Loading it, he aimed it straight ahead, "Now come on and stay alert!"

-

They moved off. Rimmer randomly karate chopping at shadows as they worked their way down the ship.

Finally they found Cat and Kryten in a dark corner of the cargo decks, hunched over a computer screen and whispering to each other.

"Hey guys!" Lister called out a warning, "Somethin's up. Mine and Rimmer's pants have both been nicked."

"Nonsense, sir." Kryten shook his head dismissively. "They're just in the wash."

"All of them?" Rimmer asked, disbelievingly.

"All of them, sir." Kryten reassured. "Frank's getting quite a work out."

"We've been to the laundry. There isn't anything in the washing machine."

"The Dryer, then."

"It's whirring round with Spare Head 3 in it."

"Ah yes, physiotherapy day. Well then it'll be in with the ironing."

"Well, can you do it then?"

"Of course. It's on my To-Do list. Right after teaching the Cat humility."

"I'm just soooo great at humility!" the Cat tore his gaze from the screen for the first time and grinned up at them. "It won't take any time at all because I'm the best, monkeys!"

"Besides which," Rimmer interjected, "My underwear wasn't even worn."

"They were suffering from hanger fatigue. Poor little guys. I just had to get them down and give them a day out!"

"Next you'll be telling me an apple's a banana." Lister stared him out. "I taught you to lie, remember? I know when you're doin' it. Your right foot jiggles. Now, either you join a one-legged tour of Lord of the Dance right now, or you tell me what is going on."

Kryten cringed, "Oh it's no good. I can't lie to you!" He stepped back to reveal the computer screen. "We've been using the Time Drive to go back to Earth 2004."

"Why the hell would you do that?" Lister shook his head, "Smeg! The last time we used it for an innocent curry hunt we ended up completely subverting Earth history, had to get JFK to assassinate himself AND got indigestion from eating too much smegging dead person! And that is a day you do not want to re-live!"

Rimmer's nostrils flared in a warning, "AND it directly contravenes that Space Core Directive the number of which temporarily eludes me."

"Which one, sir?"

"The one about time being fleeting and madness taking its toll."

"That's not a Space Core Directive, sir. That's the lyrics to the 'Time Warp'."

"Well it makes sense to me!"

"But this is different, Bud!" The Cat looked at them again. "It's business. We're making some money, dudes!"

"What do we need money for?"

"Food, man. And new clothes and Vid's and everything Bud! All bargains, too!"

Kryten nodded with pride. "It's really rather clever, sirs. I've linked this screen to the year 2004 through a portal created by the Time Drive. By selling certain items, we've built up a small hillock of historical currency with which to purchase the comestibles we require. We then use the Time Drive to bring them back to our present time and location. It's perfect!"

"But what's this got to do with our pants?" Lister asked the million dollar- pound question.

"Well sir, you're the creator of the Cat people. You were frozen in time until the day came to lead them to Fuschal, the promised land."

"And me?" Rimmer queried. "You created a whole planet, Rimmerworld. Populated by your own clones, a virgin birth for an entire race, to all intents and purposes."

Rimmer choked, turning purple. "And what about McGrud-,"

Lister cut him off, "I think what he means to ask is what that has to do with anything."

"Well sir," Kryten pulled a worried face, "I'm sorry but that just about makes you Gods. And where we're going, that makes your pants hotter than a volcano spewing madras sauce."

"With a genuine Certificate of Authenticity every time, buds!" The Cat grinned and turned back to the computer screen, clicking maniacally.

"They're selling like hot kecks!" Kryten waggled his eyebrows.

"But it doesn't make sense." Rimmer continued, "Where on earth do you find people stupid enough to buy our underwear?" he shook his head, "Where? Mine are one thing, but Lister's? Are the people of 21st Century Earth really quite so insane? Blind? Blind drunk? Have you found a commune of extremely rich village idiots? Have you discovered a hitherto unknown strand of DNA for compulsive spending? Have human beings finally got to the stage where they can no longer judge true value? Make logical decisions and stop themselves from snapping up everything with a Certificate of Authenticity stapled to it?

"I'm glad you asked that, sir," Kryten smiled proudly as he finally swivelled the computer screen to face them, "Gentlemen, welcome to the 21st Century. Welcome to Ebay!"

-

The End  
  
(why oh why did I write that!) 


End file.
